Everything Possible
by electrakitty74
Summary: Tom Collins, in his childhood. Chapter one, Growing up and Coming out.


**Title: **Everything Possible  
**Author:** Sarah  
**Feedback:** Love it, please leave it. . .positive or negative  
**Pairing: **Just Collins  
**Word Count: **1961  
**Rating: **PG-13 ish I dunno  
**Genre: **Character past  
**Summary: **  
**Notes: **Just a thought I had while filling in a character bio on Collins. I thought his ideals seemed very "neo-hippie" and what if his parents had actually been hippies?  
**Special Thanks: **To**scotsinkilts**,**shillaire**, and my best friend Sammie for reading and betaing. You guys rock!  
**Spoilers: **None  
**Warnings: **None, well, ok mention of a wet dream  
**Disclaimer: **Don't own can't claim, Thanks Fred Smalls, I don't own your stuff either.

There were fourteen kids who lived in the Spring Valley Commune in Pennsylvania. Thomas wasn't the youngest, nor was he the oldest. He was in the middle somewhere. When he was small, his parents sent him out daily to play with the other kids, sometimes clothed, but more often when the weather was warm, he would run naked as a jaybird to play with the other kids, most of whom were in various states of undress.

The day he turned five years old, he and his mother had a disagreement about whether or not he was grown up enough to stay up past 8 pm. Paula Collins had always respected her son's independence, but she also understood that as stubborn as he was, he needed boundaries. She stood firm, which resulted in her son "running away" to the communal treehouse. He lived there for four days, certain that he was "grown up" and "on his own," never questioning the food which magically appeared for him three times a day.

All the parents watched out for each other's children, that was the way life worked there. Tom Collins and the other kids who lived at Spring Valley had eight sets of parents where most kids had one, and though he was the only child his mother ever had, in many ways he had thirteen brothers and sisters. All of the kids were home-schooled long before it was in fashion; each parent took over and taught his or her pet subject. Literature and English were William Hobbs' subjects, math was taught by Susan Clarion, and Tom's mother, Paula taught the kids spelling. Usually, once they were 15, the kids on the commune went to the local public high school, or to its private counterpart. Most of the adults who lived there were highly educated and it was a priority that their children be too. Most would go on to prestigious colleges and graduate schools.

Their home was like most of the others on the commune. They were all sturdy, functional concrete block affairs with very little individuality. Tom had lived in such a home since birth. Having been taught from an early age to look beneath the surface of a situation and see the truth all around him, he was unbothered by the dullness of his dwelling. His home might physically be boring, but his life was far from it. His childhood days were spent contemplating blades of grass with his father or discussing lofty topics with his mother. He was so sheltered that he assumed that every seven year old spent hours talking with his father about the nature of God and the universe, or that everyone's mother quoted Proust and Chairman Mao to an eleven year old. It wasn't until college that he realized that was not the way every child was raised.

His was the only black family who lived on the commune, though Summer Walters was of mixed race; her father had died before her mother had remarried and moved to the commune. The other kids were mostly white, save for Rain Josephs who was Native American and lovely with a curtain of long black hair spilling onto her copper shoulders, but young Tom Collins didn't notice. Much to Rain's disappointment, Tom wasn't interested in girls.

The summer when he was twelve was a milestone for young Tom in several ways. He was the last of the kids in his age group to get his first kiss, in fact a few of the younger ones had been kissed long before him. He simply hadn't been interested. That summer, Rain cornered him behind a tree and demanded that he kiss her. Previous to that, Tom hadn't thought much about girls, but the sensation of Rain's lips against his, just a brush of soft skin against his mouth, set off all kinds of turbulence and speculation in Tom's previously idyllic life. That night, he awoke to dirty sheets, shamefacedly getting up to wash them before his mother discovered he'd had his first wet dream. Even more confusing to him was that he hadn't been dreaming of Rain. It was dreams of 14-year old Jeremy Hobbs which caused Tom to be sitting up at 3 o'clock in the morning tending a washing machine. He didn't know who to talk to about the way he was feeling. The part of his brain which was still a child begged him to talk to his mother; she had always understood him, but there was a new section which confused him all the more that told him that his parents would never understand these new and frightening feelings; that no one before him had ever felt this way. So he suffered with his emotions for months in silence until his mother, unable to stand her normally talkative and cheerful son's reticence broached the subject with him.

"Morning, Tommy."  
Tom rolled his eyes in the way near-teens reserved especially for their parents.  
"Mom, will you please stop calling me Tommy? I'm almost thirteen."  
"Sure . . . Tommy." A mischievous grin danced across Paula Collins' dark features. She sipped her strong coffee and turned back to the sink where she was cutting fresh strawberries.  
Tom flopped into a chair with a heavy sigh.  
"You want some of these strawberries, Tommy? Janice picked them this morning."  
Tom rolled his eyes at his mother's insistence on calling him 'Tommy,' but inwardly he smiled. He knew her well enough to know that she would do whatever she chose and not even he could stop her.  
She turned and looked at him and he quickly arranged his features into a scowl.  
"No, mom, just coffee. Ok?"  
"Ok, baby. Coffee it is." Pouring him a cup from the enameled pot sitting on the burner, she turned and set it down in front of him. Taking the heavy bowl into which she had been cutting strawberries, she curled her legs under her and sat down across from him. She ached to ask him what was on his mind; it hurt her physically to see that there was something he wasn't sharing with her. The Tommy she knew didn't keep things inside, but she could see that the new Tommy didn't want to be pressured. Sipping her coffee thoughtfully, she decided to wait and let the important conversation she knew was coming be his idea.  
After several minutes of comfortable silence, her son finally spoke up.  
"Momma?" Her heart leapt when he called her this. Here was the boy she knew.  
"Yeah, baby?"  
"I . . . I need to talk to you about something." His face was such a mask of confusion, she longed to go to him and take him into her arms, but she knew that he needed to get through his ambivalence on his own. All she could do was sit and watch and try to help.  
"Honey, we have always talked about everything. You can say whatever you want to me."  
He still didn't meet her eyes.  
"Momma, I . . . I kissed Rain the other day."  
Paula smiled.  
"Oh baby," she tried not to laugh with relief. "Is that what's been bothering you?"  
"Well . . . no. That's not it, not everything anyway. I . . . I can't tell you."  
"Why not?"  
"It's . . . it's complicated. You wouldn't understand."  
Her patience evaporated. Unable to bear to see her normally confident son looking so lost and confused while she sat and did nothing, Paula reached across the table and took Tom's chin in her hand. She lifted his face and forced him to look into her eyes.  
"Thomas Briar Collins," she said softly. "You and I have always said everything to one another. I love you more than my life and I can't stand seeing you so upset. Please tell me what's going on."  
It all fell out before he knew what was happening. Kissing Rain, dreaming of Jeremy, washing the sheets, the weeks of confusion. Paula listened sympathetically, holding her son's hand. It was a battle not to go to him and hold him as he cried, but she sat simply, holding his hand and loving him from a distance, mourning slightly the loss of her son's childhood. Once his weeping had subsided, Paula squeezed the boy's hand (_young man,_ she reminded herself) gently. He turned his red-rimmed eyes to her and sniffled.  
"Momma, what's wrong with me?"  
"Oh baby, nothing's wrong with you. Everything you're feeling is normal."  
"But . . . I'm a boy."  
"Yes, darling, I've known that for many years now." Her gentle attempt at humor was lost on her son.  
"And . . . boys are supposed to want to kiss girls, not other boys."  
"Honey, what have I taught you? There are no rights or wrongs where love is concerned. You just love, doesn't matter who. You, Mister Thomas Collins, are one of the most loving people I've ever met. Never . . . Never doubt that your feelings are genuine. If it comes from you, it's right, ok?"  
He sniffled "Ok, momma."

That afternoon, while he was reading _Sense and Sensibility_ for the third time, Tom's mother interrupted to tell him she was going in to town to the library. He waved off her attempts to get him to go along and continued reading. 

He was out when she got home, walking in the forest behind their house with his father, debating whether or not he should have a repeat of the conversation with his mother from that morning. In the end, he decided against coming out to his father for now, enjoying instead the comfortable silence that their relationship afforded. When he returned home, there was a note in his mother's handwriting, waiting for him on his bedroom door. He took it into his room and unfolded the paper. Written inside were song lyrics:

_Everything Possible-Fred Small  
We have cleared off the table, the leftovers saved  
Washed the dishes and put them away  
I have told you a story and tucked you in tight  
At the end of your knockabout day  
As the moon sets its sails to carry you to sleep  
Over the midnight sea  
I will sing you a song no one sang to me  
May it keep you good company_

You can be anybody you want to be  
You can love whomever you will  
You can travel any country where your heart leads  
And know I will love you still

You can live by yourself, you can gather friends around  
You can choose one special one  
And the only measure of your words and your deeds  
Will be the love you leave behind when you're gone

Some girls grow up strong and bold  
Some boys are quiet and kind  
Some race on ahead, some follow behind  
Some go in their own way and time  
Some women love women, some men love men  
Some raise children, and some never do  
You can dream all the day never reaching the end  
Of everything possible for you

Don't be rattled by names, by taunts, by games  
But seek out spirits true  
If you give your friends the best part of yourself  
They will give the same back to you

You can be anybody you want to be  
You can love whomever you will  
You can travel any country where your heart leads  
And know I will love you still  
You can live by yourself, you can gather friends around  
You can choose one special one  
And the only measure of your words and your deeds  
Will be the love you leave behind when you're gone  
Tom burst into tears and hugged the sheet of paper close, comforted to know that his mother did understand him after all.


End file.
